


honeymoon phase

by unrequited_heartbreak



Series: a collection of chapter 1's [4]
Category: DreamSMP
Genre: 2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Abusive Relationships, Alexis | Quackity Angst, Alexis | Quackity-centric, Angst, Bruises, Emotional Manipulation, Hybrid Alexis | Quackity, Villain Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Wings, manburg, quangst, the bruises are Not from physical abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28229139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/pseuds/unrequited_heartbreak
Summary: Quackity wonders, for half a second, how many of Manburg’s policies are cult-like. But then he thinks of Karl, Ponk, Punz, George, even Niki, who don’t seem nearly as hurt as he feels. Schlatt, to them, is a drunk who can’t think properly about what he’s saying. When he snaps at them, they don’t think about it for the next week. They don’t lay awake, trying to puzzle out how to be such a good servant that maybe, just maybe, they can level up to be a real vice president.Quackity takes a deep breath. He doesn’t cry.(He wants to. Fuck, he wants to.)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: a collection of chapter 1's [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008417
Comments: 24
Kudos: 202





	honeymoon phase

**Author's Note:**

> i might post another chapter of this later if i can find the motivation, but for now i wanted to get this out there!  
> quick warning for themes of abuse and descriptions of injury—stay safe dudes
> 
> also! here's a spotify playlist i made and listened to a lot while writing this https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3yiF6kdzonaYsO2arUI33F?si=TaIvhniuSdKjbsOKOYUvAw
> 
> hope you enjoy :)

“Are you fucking serious, dude?” Quackity sits stiffly, fists clenched and eyes narrow. His beanie lays nearby; delicately placed on a folded suit jacket and bloodied white button up. Schlatt stands beside him, his hip pressed against the soft, disheveled feathers of Quackity’s wings. Normally folded up under his jacket, they now splay awkwardly away from his bandaged shoulders, bent out of shape and sore. 

Quackity stares stubbornly up at the sharp line of Schlatt’s jaw. His Adam's apple bobs.

“Of course I’m serious. If you disobey me, there will be consequences. How can I run a country if I let everyone do whatever they want?” He asks, and Quackity knows better than to answer him. A cruel, wide grin splits his face in two, exposing the handful of golden molars tucked deep in the back of his mouth. 

He’s unsettling, looming over Quackity like that. His tie is perfectly straight, suit perfectly pressed, horns polished until they shine. He places a hand firmly on his friend’s shoulder, fingers draping across his collarbone. Even through the thick bandages, Quackity can feel how cold his hand is. He shudders. 

“I just...” Quackity trails off, exhaustion and frustration and betrayal festering behind his aching ribs, “I just wanted to be equals, Schlatt, and you couldn’t even let me have that. _I_ gave you the votes you needed to win. I’m the Vice President, I shouldn’t have been injured and—and paraded around for making a mistake.”

Schlatt scoffs, tightening his hand on Quackity’s shoulder blade just hard enough to irritate his blooming bruises. His shoes squeal as he shifts closer across the polished stone floor.

“Oh, come on,” he says, voice low and uncomfortably close to Quackity’s ear, “There’s nothing wrong with being an example, you’re helping your fellow citizens follow the rules. And If I gave everyone a position of power for helping out one time, everyone on this damn server would be royalty. George also pooled the votes, you don’t see him up here do you?” His scolding is condescending, like he’s explaining to a selfish toddler why hoarding all of the toys is unfair. 

Quackity’s throat feels tight. He knows he’s done more than George and the others, he knows he deserves to be treated better, but the words to express that are tangled in a jumbled mess under his tongue. He knows that if he tries to argue, Schlatt will turn the conversation around again, repeating things that don’t quite line up but make Quackity feel too stupid to backtalk.

He hates saying that, “backtalk.” Quackity isn’t disobedient. To be disobedient, you have to be below, and no matter how hard Schlatt tries to drill into his head that that’s what he is, the idea of it burns Quackity up from the inside out. Him and Schlatt should be on equal ground, they _would_ be if Schlatt wasn’t so good at getting exactly what he wanted.

“You hurt me,” Quackity says finally. His wings strain to spread for a moment, before snapping back to his shoulders when the sharp pain of unused muscles being stretched shoots through them. It’s a pathetic movement for a pathetic statement. He expects to be proven wrong. But he’s so, so tired, and nobody listens except Schlatt, even if Schlatt only listens to hold his worries against him.

Schlatt pauses to think for a second. Quackity hates his moments of humanity, near sympathy when the barking laughter and wild gestures leave him, when Schlatt seems hurt, or lost in thought, or scared—definitively, completely human. It would be so much easier if he could just be a character. So much easier to hate him like Quackity knows he should. 

“I can’t make exceptions, Alex. You know that.”

Quackity frowns, says nothing. Silence buzzes in his ears, and the name pokes at some raw spot in his gut. He runs his fingers over the course bandages looping around his chest and finds that the area is still aching and sensitive. A pained sucking in of air between his teeth only makes it throb more. 

Schlatt gently runs his fingers across Quackity’s shoulder down to the spot where his wing meets his back, then smooths the soft baby feathers stuck to his skin. The motion is tender; Quackity’s heart pangs. Tripping over himself for appreciation, for delicate gestures, he nearly forgets the ache that still lingers in that very spot from Schlatt’s own tight grip. This fucking— _bastard._ He keeps being so _soft_ with him, and it works every goddamn time. Schlatt rips his heart from his chest, places a bandaid on the wound, wipes his tears, and like some twisted placebo, it works. Quackity mends, and it starts again.

“Heal up quickly. I need you back by my side as soon as possible,” Schlatt says quietly, and steps away, leaving his friend alone with his thoughts. This is the bandaid. This is the smoothing over, this is the erasing of wounds, this is the praying on his exhaustion and fear. 

Quackity wonders, for half a second, how many of Manburg’s policies are cult-like. But then he thinks of Karl, Ponk, Punz, George, even Niki, who don’t seem nearly as hurt as he feels. Schlatt, to them, is a drunk who can’t think properly about what he’s saying. When he snaps at them, they don’t think about it for the next week. They don’t lay awake, trying to puzzle out how to be such a good servant that maybe, just maybe, they can level up to be a real vice president.

Quackity takes a deep breath. He doesn’t cry. 

(He wants to. Fuck, he wants to.)

  
__

A ray of sun beams down on Schlatt’s hair, illuminating stray strands honey-gold. He’s knee-deep in grey brackish water, squinting through twisted oak trees trying to spot something. His expression is grim.

Quackity honestly isn’t really sure why they’re out here. Schlatt had waved him and Fundy over early this morning, saying something about building a new monument and finding a good location, and they hadn’t had much of a choice in the matter. There’s a 99% chance he’s doing this to piss someone off, but Quackity rarely pays enough attention anymore to know who exactly. 

All he knows is that this place smells like shit and looks about as bad.

“Schlatt... are you sure this is a good place to build a monument?” Fundy says tentatively, making eye contact with Quackity briefly before turning to face his president, “It doesn’t seem like we’d be able to make a stable foundation here.”

Schlatt ignores him, pulling a compass out of his bag and squinting at the tiny letters on its glass surface. He’s holding it upside down, but neither of them have the courage to tell him so. Lost in his little world, or maybe just to annoy them, Schlatt mutters something about maps, and Fundy looks physically pained.

“Schlatt,” Quackity says finally, after seeing his vulpine companion fidget with his shirt for nearly a full minute. It’s a blessing and a curse to be one of the only people Schlatt will regularly acknowledge. 

Schlatt whips around to face him, expression shifting from solemn concentration to a toothy grin. Quackity’s own expression stays solidly neutral, but it doesn’t deter Schlatt in the slightest.

“Mi amor! What do you need?” Schlatt purrs, smiling sweetly down at him. It's not nearly as charismatic as it might have been if they weren’t in the middle of a swamp, but not for lack of trying. Quackity’s wings twitch at the nickname, and his hands clench around the strap of his bag. 

“Fundy was saying that this would be a bad place to build,” he says tightly. Normally, he might be brighter and more animated, but they had long run out of supplies for health potions and without assistance from Technoblade, they all had to deal with normal healing speeds. Niki had a bit of medical knowledge, though, as did Tubbo. After Schlatt’s little tango with capital punishment both of them had advised him to keep his wounds relatively exposed to the air. He had donned a loose t-shirt over his bandages the next morning, and Tubbo had practically tackled him to cut out awkward holes for his wings.

(In addition to slow healing, he’s still reeling a bit from the fight, if he’s honest with himself. They had had worse fights before, but something about being so vulnerable had planted an particularly uneasy feeling in his gut even into the next day. Having his wings unbound now, even around the people he’s supposed to trust the most, even folded under a hoodie, he feels unsafe.)

Schlatt hadn’t been pleased to see Quackity out of his regular suit, but after a frantic explanation he had narrowed his eyes and relinquished control for a short moment. Some dreamy, naive part of Quackity says that it was because he cared about him, wanted him healed and painless as soon as possible. Every other part of Quackity knows better.

Schlatt laughs hollowly, quirking an unimpressed eyebrow in Fundy’s direction.

“If we wanted to build out here, maybe we could build a platform first? That way it wouldn’t sink into the mud,” Quackity says, spur of the moment deciding to try to save Fundy from Schlatt’s prideful rage.

“Maybe. It might not be worth it. It would be easier to just build somewhere else,” Fundy notes, a neutral expression strung across his features to avoid any weakness for Schlatt to pick on. If the situation were any different, Quackity might have laughed at how easily they both bended to Schlatt’s stupid moods.

“Are you seriously doubting my judgement, guys?” Schlatt laughs again, this time in disbelief. The upside down compass is still clutched tightly in his hand.

“No, Mr. President. It’s just a suggestion,” Fundy hides his stress well, but Schlatt’s much more perceptive than most assume he is. The tightness of Fundy’s shoulders, the straightness of his tail, the way his jaw is locked; Schlatt can read him as easily as a book.

And easy is boring. He can see that Fundy won’t fight, that any insult will be water off a duck’s back. The only thing Fundy is scared of is being replaced, and Schlatt can’t afford to threaten that. 

He turns to Quackity, gaze sharp, and stiffly stuffs his compass back in his bag. “Quackity, will you come and speak with me for a second?”

Quackity glances up from where he was picking at his nails. When he sees the look on Schlatt’s face, his heart leaps up into his throat. 

“Sure, Schlatt,” he says, strained, and slowly squelches over to the spot behind a tree where Schlatt stands with his arms crossed.

“What the fuck was that?” the president hisses as soon as Quackity is in earshot, “Why would you embarrass me in front of him?”

Of all the things for him to get angry over, Quackity was definitely not expecting that. 

“ _What?_ ”

“Why would you act like you know better than me, you made me look like a fucking idiot!”

 _You say that like it’s hard,_ Quackity wants to snap, but he bites his tongue. He thought (hoped) they would have more of a break before fighting again, like they usually did. They would argue in public, then again, the night after, angrier and alone, then have a week or so of cooperation and joking. Schlatt would act xylitol-sweet and Quackity’s attention starved brain would take what it could get. It was like clockwork, why was he being so volatile now?

“I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t, I know you’ve been feeling rough lately and that was shitty of me,” Quackity says, reaching out and placing a hand on his friend’s arm with a sheepish, plastic smile. Schlatt being angry means he feels powerless, and giving him that power back tends to cancel it out. “Really, dude. That was on me.” 

“You’re damn right it was. You should have been on my side. You’re _my_ vice president,” Schlatt growls, as if Fundy can’t hear them crystal clear from across the water. To his credit, Quackity notes as he glances over, the fox is stubbornly trying to seem interested in his map instead of their fight.

“I know, babe, I know,” Quackity reassures, nervous laughter bubbling up in his throat. Schlatt tugs his hands out of his grasp, scoffing at his vice president’s words. The panicked realization that this isn’t a single jab type thing, that Schlatt is committed to his victim narrative, hits Quackity all at once. His heart jumps to his mouth again.

“Not here, Schlatt, c’mon. Fundy is right there,” Quackity begs, reaching out for him again, clutching Schlatt’s hands in his and holding on tighter this time. He looks back at their companion to find his eyes already trained on them. Caught in his act of morbid curiosity, Fundy’s tail tucks between his legs and he looks in the opposite direction.

“I don’t give a fuck if Fundy is there, he’s the reason we’re fucking fighting right now. Alex, look at me.” 

Quackity turns, cheeks flushed half with rage and half with embarrassment. He’s doing it again, trying to get under his skin, and it keeps _working._ Quackity wants to slap the stupid, dangerous expression right off his scruffy face. 

Schlatt’s red eyes bore into his black ones, dark and determined to get what he set out for. 

“Apologize to me,” he demands.

Quackity’s usually well-kept anger flares up suddenly like a candle flame, blue soul fire filling his lungs with smoke. He stares as the golden glint of Schlatt’s hair again, trying to scrape out whatever love or even tolerance for this man he has left. He didn’t even fucking do anything wrong. He just said a true fact, then tried to help _._ He tried to _help_ and it got him in trouble.

“I’m sorry, Schlatt,” he says through gritted teeth, and drops Schlatt’s hands.

“Schlatt?” Schlatt narrows his eyes. Quackity wishes he could dissolve into the stinking, oozing mud, leave behind this conversation and the shame-pink feeling in his chest. 

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Good. Let’s not leave Fundy waiting.”

  
__

It’s times like this when Quackity is intensely grateful for Manburg’s plumbing systems and water heaters. 

He stares at himself in the mirror, face lit by artificial light and hair tousled and damp. The White House’s larger bathroom is nearly never used, and on the occasion Quackity does use it, the mirror always enamors him for longer than he’d like to admit. 

Hopped up on the marble countertop like he is, he can count each of his eyelashes, the freckles dotted across his cheek. He gets glimpses of his face in puddles or window panes sometimes, sure, but it just isn’t the same. Being able to stare clearly into his own eyes is unsettling. 

The most compelling thing he can see, as much as he hates to admit it, are his wings. He hasn’t taken care of them since he was a kid, really, when his mother had brushed her hands through his feathers, oiled them, and encouraged him to exercise them, keep them strong. But then as he grew taller and the baby fat disappeared from his cheeks, his wings stayed stagnant, crippled. When he flew the nest, so to speak, he stopped looking after them entirely.

They’re in better condition than most of the time though, after so much time free from their usual constraints. Butter-yellow feathers stick out at awkward angles, and they barely move from their resting position, but they’re not wrapped flat under an undershirt, or, god forbid, bound to his back with a roll of bandages. 

He runs his fingers through the feathers tentatively, as if they’re made of sugar and will melt in his hands. 

He’s so used to hiding them, his weakness and otherness. Now that they’re free, some deep seated part of him screams of the irresponsibility of letting them be that way. Another part says that they’re good because they’re pretty and pretty is valuable, another urges him to cut them off completely, a fourth argues that they’re a wonderful part of his heritage that he should be proud of. 

Overwhelmed by his thoughts, Quackity blinks them away and slips off of the countertop. He can finish his self reflection another day, when he’s not scrubbed of marsh residue and completely exhausted. He grabs a large fluffy towel as he leaves, quickly rubs it over his head to dry his hair, then wraps it around his waist. Tomorrow will be a new day. A fresh start.

He turns the handle of the bathroom door, putting on a smile to try as if to convince his face to form one on its own, and nearly eats shit after colliding with the tall figure that hovers right outside.

“There you are!” Schlatt beams down at him, box clutched under his arm. He wears a perfectly pressed suit, as always, but his tie is untied, hung loose around his neck.

Quackity is basically naked. Basically naked and feeling like the best course of action might be to sprint for the nearest window and pray that the fall kills him quickly. 

“What the fuck,” he says instead.

“I wanted to apologize for today,” Schlatt explains, unfazed by the “god please fucking put me out of my misery” look on Quackity’s face, and only sparing a single glance at the garish bruises blooming across his chest.

The Schlatt standing in front of Quackity is a totally different person to the threatening, manic beast he spoke to in the swamp. He’s smiling, for one, non-threateningly and without teeth. Most of Schlatt’s smiles are somewhat reminiscent of a chimpanzee’s threatening grimace, but this one is very... normal. 

This Schlatt’s posture isn’t intimidating, in fact, it's almost dorky, like he’s not sure what to do with the length of his limbs. His hair falls in curls around the base of his horns, instead of being slicked back away from his hairline like normal. It makes him look much younger.

“Schlatt...” Quackity warns, suspicious of this bright eyed intruder taking the spot of his friend, “I was just about to go to bed, man. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

Schlatt frowns, eyes wide and begging like a sad puppy. “Aw come on, I brought you food! You love food!”

Quackity’s eyes flicker down to the package in Schlatt’s grasp and frustratingly, relievingly, he feels the tension start to seep out of his shoulders. He can see the familiar seal of Niki’s bakery pressed into the thin cardboard lid, and unless Schlatt is performing a very elaborate, very cruel prank on him right now, he really did get him food. Desert, even.

Quackity sighs. “Y’know what, fine. Let me get dressed—I’ll be out in a second and we can talk.”

He turns to walk down the hall to his room, but Schlatt stops him with a gentle tap on the shoulder. 

“It’s gonna be hard to dress your wounds with your wings in the way,” He says seriously, offer sitting heavy and unspoken in the air. Quackity scrutinizes his expression for any hint that this is all some big joke, and comes up with nothing. Thoroughly weirded out, but willing to take whatever help he can get, he nods for Schlatt to follow him to his room. 

Quackity shuffles around the space, movements fumbling under the gaze of an audience. He pulls a pair of loose sweatpants from a drawer, another cut out t-shirt, a pair of underwear, and chucks them halfheartedly onto his bed. Niki’s gifted tin of medical supplies follows them, bouncing across his bedspread. Schlatt sets the box down on his desk at some point and watches him with amused eyes, hands in his pockets. He whistles as Quackity crouches down to pick up a stray sock.

“Stop staring, asshole,” Quackity chirps lightheartedly, heart feeling oddly floaty in his chest. This Schlatt feels... nostalgic. Something about him is old and good, a teenaged memory. He’s from some time before presidency, before arguments and heartache, a remnant retrieved from the past.

Schlatt snorts and turns around, covering his eyes with both hands like a little kid. Quackity pulls on his clothes as quickly as possible. He bends and stretches to pull things over sharp elbows and knees, then, finally covered, flops down on the foot of his bed.

“Are you gonna help me with this or what?” He says, allowing himself a tentative smile as he starts unrolling the bandages. He might as well enjoy this while he can. Schlatt turns around and dramatically uncovers his eyes. 

“Sheesh, is it hot in here or is it just you, Big Q?” He grins exaggeratedly. It pulls an exasperated, unexpected laugh from Quackity’s chest, and he winces as the movement pinches at his bruises.

“Sorry, sorry,” Schlatt untangles himself from the chair he had plopped himself down into and reaches for a tin Quackity placed out on the bedspread. He squints down at the chicken scratch label for a moment. Distraught, he sets it back down, plan to swoop in and seem much more knowledgeable than he was foiled by Tubbo’s horrible handwriting.

“Here, can you open this?” Quackity offers, holding out a little jar, “I’m supposed to put it on my skin under the gauze.”

Schlatt gives him a small salute and screws the lid off. He sniffs the ointment, eyes squinted suspiciously, and satisfied that it just smells vaguely herbal, he dips two of his fingers in the stuff. 

“Chin up, big guy,” he says, grinning evilly, and when Quackity looks up with his nose wrinkled at the nickname, Schlatt smears a broad smudge of the ointment onto his chest.

“Jesus f—fucking Christ, Schlatt,” Quackity gasps, “that’s _cold,_ you little bitch—”

Schlatt laughs until he wails, then muffles his hysterics facedown in Quackity’s bedspread, leaving his poor friend to try to stop stray ointment from getting all over himself. Said friend grumbles, muttering colorful curses under his breath. Despite his annoyance, Quackity revels in the childish breathlessness of the moment.

His wings strain to stretch out in the excitement, and he’s pulled down to earth, wincing sharply at their soreness. He pauses, breathing through the pain. Schlatt’s shoulders still shake slightly, but he manages to look up at the sudden lack of sound from Quackity’s direction.

“I’m sorry man, the look on your face—” he says, apologetic but grinning so wildly that it loses some of its emotional impact.

Quackity doesn’t acknowledge him, overwhelmed by pain. His expression turns down; he shuts his eyes and hisses out a breath through his teeth. 

Schlatt, sensing Quackity’s turmoil, turns to face him again.

“I really am sorry—oh shit, oh fuck—here, sorry,” Schlatt says guiltily, hands hovering centimeters away from Quackity’s skin for a moment as Quackity fumbles with the jar again, waiting to be pushed away. When he isn’t, he tentatively presses down. The dark dappling of Quackity’s skin is soft under his fingers. 

They lapse into silence, Schlatt following Quackity’s cues to move, Quackity trying his best to avoid eye contact. Schlatt is surprisingly gentle, applying the ointment this time with a solemn sort of care.

Quackity knows that this is probably just damage control, but he can’t find it in himself to care. It’s very hard to lean away from someone trying so desperately to make you feel better.

He nods to Schlatt once they’ve gotten every bruise, holding the roll of bandages out towards him and wrapping his end around the base of his ribs a few times. Schlatt’s fingers shake slightly with the effort of trying to keep still, but he bites his lip and manages.

He wraps the roll in wide looping strokes around his torso, careful to not restrict movement of Quackity’s arms or wings. Quackity watches, heart up in his throat. 

Schlatt is calculated, no matter what he presents as, but somehow it has never crossed Quackity’s mind that that calculatedness can be tender. It could be sharp words, but it could also be this. 

Schlatt fastens the end of the roll with a few safety pins and looks down at his handiwork; smooths out a few wrinkles, tugs at a few loose threads. 

“Do you need to do anything for these?” He says calmly, brushing through stray feathers at the base of Quackity’s wing with his fingers, “They look pretty rough.”

Quackity freezes up, shoulders taut and hands twitching. Schlatt continues, drifting down from soft white down feathers to crooked yellow primaries. He’s disturbingly comfortable forcing his way into Quackity’s personal space—this is the second time this week he’s done this. There’s a moment where Quackity wonders if he sees his distress and chooses to ignore it or if he genuinely doesn’t catch it. The thought makes his stomach hurt. He’s not sure he wants to know.

“Uh,” Quackity manages, trying to quell the urge to leap away from the touch, “It’s—they’ll be fine. Could you—sorry, could you stop touching them?”

The request leaves his mouth and he immediately regrets it, turns to his friend with wide eyes.

“Aw come on, I thought you trusted me,” Schlatt says, amused, pulling his hand away. Quackity is quiet. Schlatt’s expression drops, just a little, “Quackity?”

“It’s really not a big deal, Schlatt. I trust you,” He says, but the air is already tense between them. The moment was so nice, and Schlatt was being so nice, and he fucked it up. He just keeps fucking up, doesn’t he?

“Alright,” Schlatt says, trying to jump back into the comfort they had before. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. It’s like a switch has flipped.

They’re both quiet for a heavy moment. Quackity puts on his shirt, and tries to ignore Schlatt’s eyes on him when he opens his closet again for a sweatshirt to pull over his wings. Something like peace lays tattered on the floor between them, and though Quackity should have learned to get used to it by now, it hurts. Things were going so well, and then they weren’t. 

“I’m going out to the balcony,” Schlatt announces, speaking too loud into the silence, “I need a smoke.”

“Okay,” Quackity murmurs, exhaustion tugging at him. He feels like crying all of a sudden. 

Schlatt leaves, and takes all of Quackity’s energy with him. 

Maybe things will be okay tomorrow. Quackity sits down on his bedspread, leans back and stares up at the bare white ceiling. 

When he sleeps, he dreams of Schlatt’s voice.


End file.
